


For He's A Jolly Good Fellow

by Whisper91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Alec Trevelyan is a good bro, Cue James, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poor Q needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: Q doesn't exactly have a track record of happy birthdays, but he's determined to break the chain this year.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roseforthethorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my darling Bookworm <3 xxx

 

.

 

The persistent buzzing from his mobile on the bedside table drags him unwillingly from his dreams, the warmth and comfort of a deep sleep shattering into a hazy grogginess as he groans into his pillow and flings an arm out to fumble for the device.

Squinting through the darkness at the too-bright letters on the screen, he heaves short, sharp sigh and swipes to accept the call.

“This had better be good, Adrian,” he says flatly, in a voice low and hoarse from sleep.

 _“I’m sorry to wake you, Sir,”_ the usually-unflappable underlying apologises, his voice strained but controlled as alarms blare in the background. _“But there’s been an incident that requires your- Thompson, don’t let it near the reactor!”_ There’s a loud, booming crash in the background, followed shortly afterwards by the wail of the fire alarm. _“Bollocks.”_

Now considerably more awake than he had been only moments before, Q pushes himself upright, reaching out to tap the base of his bedside lamp to cast a dim yellow glow about the bedroom. Achilles raises his head to look at him, and gives a soft _meow_ of discontent at the rude awakening, shifting where he’s stretched out over the human’s lower legs.

“Wright?” Q calls, when all he gets for several seconds is the muffled sound of shouting and wailing alarms. “Adrian, what on _earth_ is going on?”

 _“Sorry, Sir.”_ The man sounds a tad out of breath now. _“It’s that prototype robot you’ve been working on, someone obviously got bored and thought it’d be a good idea to turn it on.”_

Q drags a hand down his face. “Oh, Christ.”

_“I don’t suppose there’s a way to turn it off remotely?”_

“Not without adequate security clearance. Once activated, the prototype’s designed to be self-sufficient until the deactivation sequence is initiated.” Q’s already moving, tumbling out of bed (much to his cat’s mewling protests) and shucking out of his pyjamas. “Send a car, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 _“Already on its way.”_ There’s a brief pause, then, _“Did you have to give it a blowtorch?”_

Q sighs, phone held between ear and shoulder as he shimmies into his trousers. “It’s supposed to be a highly adaptable rescue-bot, I needed a way for it to cut through metal in the event of an emergency. And it isn’t the blowtorch you should be worrying about – don’t let it activate its thrusters, or you’ll never get it down.”

_“You inspire me with confidence, Sir.”_

Q’s lips quirk upwards at the corners despite himself. “Happy to oblige.” He shoves his feet into his unlaced shoes, blinking hard to clear the fuzziness from his vision, and realises his glasses are missing – they hadn’t been in their usual spot on his bedside table, so he hadn’t thought to put them on. “Just get everyone to a safe distance and keep the screaming to a minimum. It tracks heat signatures, but it won’t bother you unless it thinks you’re at risk. Tell everyone not to panic.”

 _“I’ll do my best,”_ Adrian replies, and in the background the alarms cut off abruptly. _“We’ve managed to seal it inside one of the test chambers.”_

“Good, that should hold it for a while.” Poking his head into the ensuite bathroom, he spots his missing spectacles on the shelf beneath the mirror. “Let me know if the situation changes.”

_“Roger that.”_

Terminating the call, Q yawns and slips his glasses onto the bridge of his nose as he trudges back into the bedroom to pull on his shirt and cardigan, blinking hard as things abruptly come into focus. He glances towards the clock on his bedside table and sighs again – not even two o’clock in the morning, no wonder he feels so exhausted. He’s been asleep less than three hours.

Achilles pads over to the edge of the bed, meowing plaintively, and Q gently scoops him up, stroking a hand over the soft white fur.

“Well, it isn’t exactly how I’d planned on starting my birthday,” he confesses, smiling tiredly at the cat. “But I suppose I’ve had worse.”

He doubts anything can beat last year’s fiasco. Between Trevelyan getting himself captured and held hostage by the Syndicate, and Bond taking a bullet to the shoulder (again) in an effort to save him, his twenty-fourth birthday had been stressful to say the least. But this year Q has seen to it that both agents are on compulsory downtime between missions for the next five days at least – barring some sort of international crisis, the only trouble they’re likely to get into involves bar fights and DUI’s. And if either of them land themselves in prison on his birthday (again), he’s leaving them there to rot.

A chirp from his phone tells him the car’s arrived, and with another reluctant sigh he presses a kiss between Achilles’ velvety ears and gently sets him back down on the bed.

“I’ll be home in time for breakfast,” he promises, and claps his hands twice. “Lights down.”

The bedside lamp goes off, plunging the bedroom into darkness as Q pockets his phone, drags his fingers through his hair, and sets off down the hallway towards the front door of his flat. Unfortunately, in his state of acute sleep deprivation, he’s neglected to tie his shoelaces, and makes it about half way down the corridor before catching one beneath his shoe and abruptly hurtling towards the ground, catching his temple against the edge of the shoe-tidy on his way down.

Swearing and clutching at his throbbing head, he pushes himself back upright, hand braced against the wall to steady himself as the world spins briefly. But the phone in his pocket chirps again, likely another reminder of the car that’s waiting for him, and he groans in frustration.

“Alright, alright, I’m _coming.”_

When he finally makes it outside, limping a little and squinting through his headache, the driver gives him an assessing look.

“Rough night, Sir?” the older man asks, opening the door for him.

Q slides into the backseat wincingly, new bruises making themselves known. He sighs quietly. “I have a feeling it’s going to be, yes. To the office, please.”

 

 

 

 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

 

 

 

 

His research lab is in ruins.

Sealing the rescue-bot in one of the thick-walled testing chambers had kept it contained for a short while, but eventually it had calculated that the quickest way to escape would be to cut itself a door right into Q’s hydroponics

Considering he designed the prototype to save people, its ability to destroy so much in such a short space of time is concerning. But then again, Q can hardly blame it on the bot – it was only following its programming. And apparently that included ‘rescuing’ the various potted plants and biological research samples dotted around the lab. However, in its effort to retrieve them, the prototype has wreaked havoc on the surrounding equipment – shattering isolation tanks and incubation units, scattering test tubes and fragile sample containers all over the floor, leaving scorch marks on every surface from its miniature propulsion thrusters.

God, it’s going to take him _days_ to sort out all this mess.

“Would you like me to stay and help?”

Q glances over at Adrian Wright where the man lingers in the doorway behind the protective plastic screen, lab coat ripped and soot-smudged, looking every bit as exhausted as Q feels, and then some. He shakes his head and shoots the man a tired smile.

“No, it’s alright. Thank you.” He stands up from his crouch, nudging at a pile of shattered test tubes with the toe of his covered hazmat boot. “I’ll need to oversee a full decontamination before I can start bringing in new equipment. M’s going to want an explanation for all of this; would you let everyone know that I’ll need full incident reports on my desk by tomorrow morning?”

Adrian nods. “Will do, Sir. I’ll see you tonight.”

Raising his hand in a brief farewell, Q returns his attention to the decimated laboratory, heaving another tired sigh as his eyes fall on the charred remains of what had previously been his favourite orchid. _Still, it’s not half as bad as last year’s birthday,_ he remains himself firmly. _It’s a plant. You can buy another one._

He presses a gloved finger to the intercom on the armband of his hazmat suit. “Angie, send in a decon team, there’s nothing left to salvage down here.”

 _“Understood,”_ the coordinator answers. _“Oh, and there’s someone waiting for you in your office, Sir. Would you like me to tell them you’re busy?”_

Q resists the urge to drag a hand down his face, purely because in doing so he’d smear grime and questionably toxic plant juices all over his glasses. “No, it’s alright. I’m on my way up.”

Five minutes later, back in his own clothes but feeling no better for it, Q’s sagging against the wall of the lift as it takes him up one floor to the primary level of Q-branch. Granted, he really ought to take the stairs and not be such a lazy arse, but it’s eight o’clock in the morning on his birthday and everything _aches_ and he’s fucking fed up already.

When he reaches his office, he’s expecting to find either Mallory waiting for him with an arched brow and an expectant look, or Eve having just returned from feeding Achilles with a sympathetic smile and a shoulder to cry on.

Which is why, when he opens the door and spots a familiar muscular blond peering into the giant bearded dragon vivarium near the far wall, his first reaction is to groan and sag against the doorjamb.

“Oh God, not you.”

James glances up at him, apparently _delighted_ by the greeting if the slow grin curling at his lips is anything to go by.

“Good morning, Q,” he greets, far too bloody cheerful for this time in the morning after just two hours sleep and _no goddamn tea._

The quartermaster trudges over to his desk on aching legs, collapsing into his chair with another heavy sigh. “What have you done now?”

“Done?” Bond echoes, acting for all the world like he doesn’t show up in Q’s office on a bi-weekly basis after being the root cause of some minor disaster or another. “Who says I’ve ‘done’ anything?”

Q rubs at the lump on his throbbing temple, closing his eyes briefly. “James.”

There’s a short pause, and Q appreciates the momentary respite that silence offers his aching head, before warm, gun-calloused fingers gently pinch his chin, tipping it up ever to slightly. He winces, opening his eyes to a squint as he peers up at the agent, who’s moved closer to perch on the edge of his desk.

“I heard about the incident in your research lab,” Bond confesses, his voice quieter now as he studies Q’s face closely. “I came to see if you were alright. Although I think that egg on your head speaks for itself.”

Flinching at the gentle probing near his temple, Q jerks his head away automatically, although regrets it a moment later when James’ hand abruptly releases his chin.

“You should get that looked at,” the agent advises softly. “I’ve seen the specs for that attack-bot of yours, I’m sure it packs a punch. Why on earth did you give it a blowtorch?”

Bracing his elbows on the desk, Q buries his face in his hands with a low groan. “It’s a highly adaptable rescue bot,” he says, for what feels like the tenth time that morning. “And it didn’t attack me.”

Fingers ghost against the bump at his temple. “Then what happened here?”

Q mumbles the answer into his hands, cheeks growing hot. James apparently mistakes his embarrassment for a dwindling state of consciousness, and settles a warm hand on the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“You did what, sorry?”

“Tripppedoverm’sh’laces,” the quartermaster mutters, the sound muffled by his palms.

“Say again?”

_Oh, for the love of…_

Dropping his hands to squint glaringly towards the agent, cheeks aflame, he says, “I tripped over my own bloody shoelaces on my way out of the door this morning.” He crosses his arms over his chest, uncaring about how juvenile the action may appear. “Happy now?”

James blinks at him, a little taken aback by the response, before his lips twitch up at one corner, eyes shining in amusement.

“Don’t. Say. Anything,” Q warns.

The agent raises his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t going to.” His smile has softened to something less teasing though, and there’s a touch of sympathy in his expression as he regards the quartermaster. “Sounds like you’re having a bloody awful birthday so far.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t quite how I imagined things would-” Q pauses, fully realising for the first time what James’ statement implies, and shoots the agent a suspicious look. “Who told you it was my birthday?”

“Ah.” James winces. “You did, as a matter of fact. Last Christmas, when you, uh, let your hair down at the office party?” At least the man has the decency to look guilty at the confession. Bloody spy. “You gave Alec and myself a right telling off about an overseas mission that had spoiled your birthday. It didn’t take us long to realise which one you meant.”

Fuck. This is why Q normally sticks to tea.

The quartermaster rubs at his temple. “If I hear you’ve made this public knowledge, Bond…”

“I know,” James holds up a hand to forestall the threat, “you’ll assign me to a remote radio surveillance outpost for the rest of my career. Don’t worry your pretty little head, we know how to keep a secret.”

“Good.”

James moves over to the far side of the office to retrieve a covered tray (and God, Q really must be out of it if he hadn’t noticed that when he’d first come into the room). “I didn’t just stop by to check up on you,” the agent admits, setting the tray down in front of Q and whipping off the cover with a flourish. “I thought you might appreciate a decent breakfast, today of all days.”

Q stares down at the tray of scones and tea things in surprise.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked sultanas or not,” James continue, “so I made a batch of plain and brought along two of each.”                                                                                                                                       

“You _made_ these?”

James shoots him a teasing smile. “Mm. Don’t let on, mind; Eve’s liable to get jealous.”

The quartermaster, for perhaps the first times in his career, is lost for words. He takes in the carefully-arranged tray, the little teapot beneath its matching cosy, the little pots of clotted cream and strawberry jam. God, it’s _exactly_ what he needs right now.

“Thank you,” he says, glancing back up at the man. “It looks wonderful.”

The agent dips his head in a nod of acknowledgement as he rises from his perch on the desk, a soft smile curling at his lips.

“Happy Birthday, Q.”

Waiting until Bond has closed the door behind him, Q lets his mouth curl into a wider, fonder smile, glancing back down at his breakfast, the forgotten hunger pangs finally making themselves known.

Perhaps, he thinks as he cuts a scone in half and spreads clotted cream and strawberry jam with a liberal hand, perhaps this birthday is going to be a good one after all.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> NB: It's about to get a whole lot worse.


End file.
